


Replay

by Ivanna_Jones



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Gen, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivanna_Jones/pseuds/Ivanna_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America invites Britain to his home to discuss their trade agreements. That's what he said at least, but is that really why he asked him to come? And of all the days, why does it have to be the 4th of July? And why do old memories have to get involved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting of Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jean Jones](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jean+Jones).



No matter what Britain thought of his little brother, he couldn't deny that he had an eye for real estate. America's home was actually quite charming with its surrounding, colorful gardens, its ornate fence and the grandness of his 18th century colonial mansion. It was extravagant in it's own humble way. Despite his secret admiration for the house, he usually tried his best to avoid the place all together. Of course, on one side of the garden was a large flag pole flying none other than the flag his brother fought so hard for. Take the flag and add it to the house, with a little imagination, it created a picture that reminded Britain all too well of when America deserted him. Unfortunately for Britain, he had a _tremendously_ large imagination. For a second he considered leaving. They could hold this meeting somewhere else that wasn't too painful for him.

 _'Nonsense,'_ Britain thought, _'Don't be acting like a child. This is just to refresh trade agreements. For once would you get a hold of yourself and leave the past in the past, at least for today!?'_ That was a lot to ask of himself. Every year, when this particular day came around, he usually spent it drinking and letting out his emotions in the darkest, most secluded parts of his house. Out of all the countries, it had to be  _this_ one that called him out for a meeting.

He knocked on the door. No answer. He tried again.

"America? Are you there?" Apparently not. After a third knock, the door opened slightly. Britain poked his head through. "America?" Normally, it was out of the question to enter someone's home without their permission, or hell, without them being there in the first place. But what if he was simply distracted listening to his _Hail America_ record? Perhaps he hadn't heard him.

"America, I-I'm coming in." Britain gingerly pushed open the door as if he expected there to be a bear trap beyond it. He closed it behind him even more carefully as he entered the home. He listened for music or some reason why America might not have heard him at the door. He expected to hear 'Yankee Doodle' playing or something, but as he walked down the hall, there was silence.

 _'Ugh, America's' decor is cluttered to say the least.'_ Britain thought. He wasn't wrong. As he walked through the foyer, coffee tables, bookshelves and display cases took up the whole room, showcasing some of the dingiest relics Britain had ever seen. On the shelf he saw two dusty hats, both of them similar in design, but one was blue and the other was gray. Silly. Who kept old hats? On the wall he spotted an old, yellowed document that said _Bill of Rights_ at the top. America and his damn rights; he was always so obsessed with them. Resting on a coffee table was an old pistol. Probably loaded. 

 _'By God, what is it with America and his guns?! Who keeps loaded pistols lying around the house?! I knew that second amendment would go to everyone's heads.'_ Britain sighed. He shouldn't be getting himself all worked up. America was a young country, a teenager compared to his counterparts; it was only natural for him to be sentimental about his old junk. After all, a hundred years for a country as old as Britain was nothing, but to America, a hundred years made up the majority of his time since he became a country. A document little over a hundred years old _was_ a historical treasure to him.

After marveling at America's youthful perceptions and thoughts, Britain moved on. After searching for another few minutes with no luck, Britain turned the corner to search the next few rooms, but instead came face to face with a stranger. "Ah!" Britain gasped. The stranger seemed startled as well, but smiled warmly after the initial shock.

"Oh, Mr. Britain. We've been expecting you." He said. Britain just assumed this must've been America's servant.

"It doesn't really seem like it," he said indignantly, "people who expect company are usually around."

"Terribly sorry, sir. Mr. America has been up in the storage room for hours. I guess the time just got away from him." That was odd. What was he doing up there? America hated cleaning or anything that didn't involve being 'heroic'.

"Alright...so, should I just go up there then?"

"No need, I'm sure he'll be down soon. Would you like some tea in the meantime?" Duh.

"Why yes, that would be lovely." The servant motioned for Britain to follow him. He led him to a nice living room that was not nearly as over decorated as the foyer. It was quaint, cozy even. Britain didn't _exactly_ feel at home, but it was close. He sat on the ornate sofa and took a cup from the tray the servant set down. Before he could ask for his name or thank him, the servant had vanished. Britain sat on the couch, sipping his tea, thoughts racing through his head. He looked at the tea set and marveled at the simplistic beauty of them. Glossy porcelain with gold trim. Lovely. Probably real gold too. America's land was always rich with natural resources, so it wouldn't be surprising. Sitting there, staring at the tea cup, Britain couldn't help but think that America did so well without him. If not well, than pretty good for a kid who had started so late in the game.

As Britain was about to drift off into old memories and doubts, a thud came from upstairs. Finally, America was coming down. But after a few minutes, no other sounds came from upstairs. Britain heavily sighed and set his tea down.

"Bloody hell, I guess I'm going to have to go up there myself." After easily finding the grand staircase, Britain marched up to the second floor, where he heard sounds at the end of the hall. He crept toward them, curious to know what was going on. As he got closer and closer to a particular door, the sounds became audible. Was that...was that laughter? No, it was too quiet. America's laugh makes Britain want to shoot himself with that loaded pistol down in the foyer. No this was something else.

It was crying.

 _'What!? America's crying?! I never thought I'd use those two words in the same sentence.'_ His crying was soft, but clear. Britain didn't like the wave of emotions that followed after hearing America crying. The overprotective brother he had so desperately tried to repress came rushing to the surface. What was making him cry? Could he do anything about it? He would take on anyone if he had to, he was a former pirate after all. But America got pissed, not depressed when it came to other people being bothersome. Italy was the kind of person who would cry because of someone. America on the other hand, simply was not. After a few minutes the crying stopped and footsteps came toward the door. Britain quietly ran for the stairs and made it halfway just as he heard the doors open. Britain turned around and walked back up as if he had just showed up.

"Oh, hey dude!" America greeted cheerfully. There was nothing about his tone that had suggested he was previously depressed. Britain studied his face, but found no trace of tears, redness, or puffiness. It was like he hadn't been crying at all. Behind him, he had left the door open slightly. Something flashed inside. Curious, Britain stared into the room, wondering what was in there to make America suddenly cry.

"Sorry I was in there so long. It's hard to clean it out sometimes, there's so much crap." He smiled and rubbed the back of his neck apologetically. But Britain also saw that he was nervous. America nervous? What the hell was in there?!

"What's in there that was so important that you were ridiculously late to our meeting for?" He asked. America could only stutter before his older brother pushed through the doors to his storage room. There he saw what he hoped to never see again.

Standing in front of a reflective mirror (obviously the source of the flash) was a uniform. Britain immediately began to have flashbacks of countless soldiers he had shot wearing that very uniform. But worst of all, it reminded him of that rainy day where, after centuries of bloody battles and wars and quarreling with other nations; his heartbreak caused by betrayal from the little brother he raised, crushed him. Leaning against the display model was a bayonet attached to a rifle that had but a single scratch from the fight...

The two just stood there for a while, quiet. America simply stood there, sadness clear on his face now. It seems like he did this on purpose. But why? Was it because he just wanted to mess with Britain? No, that was low and he wouldn't look sad if he was just toying with him. Was it possibly because he wanted to talk about it all; to get it off his chest? Maybe, but America wasn't mushy or one to be somewhat apologetic for past events. None of it made sense. Britain just stood there, using every ounce of his will not to cry and shake uncontrollably with grief. This was the uniform before him. The one enemy uniform throughout his centuries of wars and conflict that caused him emotional compromise and pain. The other armies were just a bunch of enemies that could easily be destroyed. This uniform was different, powerful; every colonial soldier looked like his little brother. The same little brother who used to grin whenever he would come to visit. The same little brother whose love was once, unconditional. How can you just shoot him? You can't. You just can't.

"It doesn't fit anymore." America commented. "I'm guessing its deeper meaning is that my rebellion days are over. I've grown."

 _'You bastard,'_ Britain thought, _'Of course you've grown. I've watched you damn it! You think I ever stopped!? You've gotten so strong, stronger than I ever thought you would without me. You arsehole! Sure your uniform doesn't fit you anymore, but mine does! What's the bloody deeper meaning behind that?! That I've never gotten over it?! That I'm still willing to fight you at a moment's notice?! That I still wish to have my little brother back!? Of course it does, I'm a bloody idiot!'_ No matter how much restraint he had, tears began to slide down his face.

 _'No you git, you're not crying here. Not in front of him.'_ Britain waited for another brilliant comment from his brother, but he was gone. Where the hell did he go?! _'He seriously left me in a room full of memories that have caused me heart-wrenching pain for over a century?!'_ Son of a bitch. But Britain was enticed nonetheless. This was the perfect opportunity to find out how much he really meant to America. After shifting through old books and other things he was sure America also thought was garbage, he found it. The chest that might as well have had 'Memory Lane' painted on the side of it. The lock was on, but it was unlocked. Britain assumed America usually left it under lock and key, but he must have been scouring through it earlier and forgotten. Or maybe he left it unlocked on purpose. Either way, Britain opened it. Inside were things that brought tears to his eyes. He pulled out dress clothes he had forced upon America to polish him up to be a good representative of Britain's influence. It hadn't worked. America had said they were uncomfortable. But Britain wouldn't hear any of it. Next he found the old toy set of soldiers he had made for America eons ago. It warmed his old heart to see that kid smile. It was clear at the time that America adored him. He looked up to him, he didn't question him (at first), hell he probably even aspired to _be_ him.

 _'I remember the time I left when he was a young child, barely out of the toddler years. He begged me not to go, but I brushed him off. It's one of my biggest regrets. Once I returned, he was a young teenager! How long was I gone?'_ Britain thought despairingly. _'Of course he had grown, I wasn't there for him. He had to fend for himself.'_ Britain returned the stuff to the chest and locked it. He was certain he would find more things that would bring up painful memories, but he had had enough. He fled the room, forcing himself not to look at that damn uniform again.

He rushed downstairs to the living room where America was sitting, staring at the wall as if it were projecting all of his own memories.

"Perhaps we should set up another time for this meeting."

"You bastard! That's all you have to say!? You spend all day wallowing in your bad memories and then drag me into it?!"

"They're your bad memories too!" America retorted, now on his feet. "Don't act like it doesn't kill you! You know damn well that I'm terrible at sensing the mood, but even I know you haven't let go of the past! _Our_ past."

"Not only did you ask me to come here for a meeting you knew wasn't going to happen; you also asked me to come here on this specific day! As if I wouldn't notice! July 4th is a celebration for you and your people and just another day for my people, but for me, it's the day my little brother threw me away like yesterday's rubbish! It's already hard enough, but the fact that you brought me here just to revel in memories on the very anniversary of you leaving me is borderline cruel!" Britain's breathing became heavier from rage while America stood there, silent. Outside, the sky lit up with fireworks and cheers and whoops flooded across the land. The jovial celebration was almost too much for Britain. Sure, none of these people were there and most of them had forgotten what they were cheering about, but to Britain, all he heard was the sound of mass mockery. Hundreds of people were laughing at his failures, cheering at his defeat. Hell, they were setting the sky ablaze just to show how much they hated him.

"It's not much of a celebration for me." America suddenly said. Britain froze in shock. What? If anything, this should be America's favorite day of the year. His overzealous patriotism was one of his most prominent (and annoying) traits. This, of all days, should be one that makes him burst with pride and make him more insufferable than he usually was. So why apparently, is it not?

"I know it...as the day I lost my big brother." Another shocked reaction out of Britain. What? America never loved him the way Britain loved America didn't he? Their brotherhood was a thing of the past. Why would he care? He got his independence; shouldn't he be happy?

"I didn't see it that way then and for the first several decades, but as time went on...I-I was angry at first. It wasn't just the war, it were the things before the war too. I hated you, or at least I thought I hated you. I still don't know what I felt back then. All my memories from the war...they were hard for me to get over."

"That's great and all America, but at least you're over them. For me they've been on the back burner since then. I hated you. I hated you, your damn new country, that Washington fellow and everything else that came from the war. But most of all I hated myself, but I didn't realize that until decades later...But at that point, I knew my little brother was lost to me forever."

"It-it's like you don't even know why."

"Wasn't that obvious when I fell to my bloody knees in the rain and asked 'why' all those years ago?" America stood there and studied his big brother's face. It was sad and angry. It was also confused, heartbroken and devastated. It was clear he _still_ didn't know why America left. Would it make him feel better if he did? Would it make him feel worse? The probability of the latter seemed greater, but America knew he had to take that risk.

"I never really gave you a straight answer. After over two centuries, I'll tell you."


	2. Patriot Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America recounts his memories of the Revolutionary War with Britain, hoping to provide the ol' Brit with some closure and reforge their friendship.

"You and I both remember well, the events that took place during the war." America said, seated on the couch. Britain sat beside him, clasping onto a cup of tea as if it were a lifeline. He tried to keep his face neutral, though it was hard. As angry as he was at the moment, he knew he had to listen closely to what his little brother was going to say. Outside, with the sun finally gone from the sky, the fireworks became even more intense. It was as if the Americans were getting more of them, instead of running out. The boisterous sound was distracting, but also brought back memories of cannon fire and gunfights. Britain didn't need anymore help to bring up his old memories. "The reason I left was because of what happened prior to the Shot Heard Round the World." Oh God. Lexington and Concord. The beginning of the end. Britain didn't have enough tea in the world to comfort him.

 _"When you left, I was a little kid. I hung around for a little bit, waiting for you to come back, but you never did. I figured you were off fighting France, so I was actually cheering you on as opposed to being upset. After a while, I got bored. I went to my own home to explore. I was pretty damn impressed. Lots of land, natural resources. It was a blank canvas and I was excited that that was me. When I grew up a little more, I started hanging around with the natives, despite your opinion on them. They were actually really cool people. I regret the things that happened to them, believe me. They had a lot of knowledge of the land and taught the colonists (and myself), many things that helped us survive. But a lot of times I'd run into the ones that were violent and I would take solace in the immigrants. Most of them were from your place, so it was a happy medium. Many of them weren't so friendly, but I couldn't blame them. They were starving, cold and were almost completely dead. But there was this one family that I'll never forget. The Jones'. And they're important so pay attention. They'd come over a complete family; a mom, dad and three kids. By the end of the Starving Time, their daughter and son were dead. The survivors were Mary Jones, her husband Thomas and their remaining son, Patrick. They were...some of the most amazing people I'd ever known. Apparently their eldest son, Eric, died because he was sneaking his food to the others and died of starvation. They were so generous, and kind. Keep in mind I was a little kid at the time. I come by their shelter one day, starving. I would've gone home, had it not been for the two month boat ride and the fact you wouldn't have been there anyway. So I had been fending for myself for quite a few years. I come across the mother, Mary. She immediately invited me into her home, I meet her family and we hit it off. So much so, that I stayed with them so long that I was still there, even when Mary's great-great granddaughter and her husband were the head of the home. They themselves had had a big family and were doing pretty well. I was thrilled when I began to spot your ships and soldiers coming to my home. I thought you had returned and that it'd be great for you and me to build my place to the top like you had. But...there was a problem. I saw some...bad things. I couldn't help but brush it off. Those were my brother's troops after all. He must've known what he was doing. You had so much experience; who was I to think you were wrong? But my train of thought changed when I went home one day and saw a soldier talking to Frances, Mary's descendent._ 'You told me last week that you'd have the money to pay your taxes. I cannot turn my head this time.' _The soldier held out his hand. Frances was obviously frightened, but I didn't know why. All he wanted was money for the taxes. She knew about them. Sure they weren't exactly rich, but they would've somehow come up with the money. So why was she scared?_ 'Well, give it here!' _The soldier sounded much more intimidating._ _I started to understand why she was scared._ 'I'm sorry sir, but I know we paid our taxes a few days ago. Another soldier came to our home and collected them.' 'Is that right?' _the soldier asked. It was clear he believed them, but for some reason, it didn't matter. I later realized it was because he didn't want 'taxes'. He wanted money so he could afford a luxurious lifestyle._ 'What is going on here?' _Frances'_ _husband and child came outside._ 'Nothing John. Everything's fine.' 'No, it is not.' _her husband responded. Addressing the soldier, he said_ 'Never question my wife's honor. She is an honest woman and we did indeed pay our taxes. Now go.'  _John_ _didn't even have time to be surprised before he was dead on the ground. All I heard were screams and their daughter yelling for her 'pa'. The soldier tossed his used gun aside and pulled out a knife. I barely moved by the time he had grabbed hold of Frances' daughter. He raised his knife to kill, but I threw a rock at him. It distracted him long enough for me to tackle his legs out from under him. I told Frances and her kid to run. Frances shooed her daughter away while she came back for me. I was the target now. The man grabbed my arm and sliced down."_ America took off his jacket lifted the sleeve of his shirt to show a scar that was once a deep gash long ago. Britain struggled to keep a straight face and maintain an air of disinterest. But his heart broke on the inside. One of _his_ soldiers hurt his baby brother. Unacceptable, but not much to be done about it now. America dropped his sleeve and continued. _"I got up and tried to run, but he had me by the shirt. He flipped me around and lunged his knife down. I was sure I was dead. But a sickening sound rang and yet I felt fine. It took a second to realize that Frances had jumped in front of me. The knife sank into her chest and she fell to the ground, the handle sticking out. Her head rolled back and her dead eyes fixed on me. I couldn't process the scene before me. John was slumped against his home, blood splatter going up the sides of the wall. Frances, on the ground, blood staining her blue dress red, her eyes open and empty. In the back I heard their daughter, Martha, scream a horrible sound._ 'No!' _The soldier seemed_ _to have turned into a wild animal. He rushed toward her, his hands out like he was going to strangle her. But before he got there...I...I..."_ America paused. He didn't know how to confess this. It had secretly haunted him in the back of his mind for centuries.

"You stabbed him with the knife, didn't you America?" He nodded, his head down and his eyes shut tight in an attempt to keep the tears in. It was his first kill. He's killed plenty more people since then in wars and such, but he just couldn't get over his first. He was a child and he had killed one of his brother's soldiers. He vividly remembered the blood, the gore. For a while he was silent. He couldn't speak; his voice would break and Britain would surly know he was crying. Britain clearly saw his distress, but yet he didn't understand. America loved violence and war. Okay, maybe he didn't _love_ it per say, but it certainly never bothered him. Why was this getting to him so badly?

"America," Britain said, raising his hand from the empty tea cup. It hovered for a little bit as he decided what he should do. Would touching America make him furious, or would it only cause him to break down more? Britain hoped for comforting, and went for it anyway. He placed his hard, heavy hand on the small of America's back, as gently as he could. It had the affect he was most concerned about.

He broke down completely.

His crying was obvious now. His hands covered his face and his body shook violently and recoiled even lower down as if in shame. "I'm sorry, Britain!" He cried. Britain was shocked. Why on earth was he sorry?! Usually, America gave off a certain energy that was almost electrifying. Like an aura of power and confidence. Like he was indestructible. But now, that feeling was gone. He didn't even feel the way he was when he was little. No, Britain remembered well the kind of persona America let off when he was a child. It was bright, exuberant, cheerful, optimistic. His spirit was always 'loud', but now...it was like it was gone. It was as if there was nothing left behind of the old America. Britain hated it. He hated it  _and_ himself. If he had kept a closer watch. If he hadn't promoted such people into his military. If only he had done _something_. But he hadn't, and his little brother paid the price for it.

"He was your soldier! And I killed him! I've got much more blood on my hands now, but I still haven't gotten over it. I felt like a traitor, like I had betrayed you and now I was also a murderer. And I went around secretly hating all the others; they all looked like _him_! I even encouraged the natives to go after them! You blamed France, but it was me!" Before he could confess more, Britain's light touch changed to a firm grip.

"America, look at me."

"I can't." Britain grasped his shirt and jerked America's face up. His face was plastered with tears. Some of them had fallen into his glasses and dripped off of them. America didn't want to look his brother in the eyes, but looking away seemed almost harder. He couldn't stand the thought of those brilliant green eyes bearing into his soul with hatred or disgust for what he had done. But Britain could barely force himself to look at America. He couldn't stand looking into those blue eyes; it was a reflection of all his failures. But America _had_ to know.

"Had I been there," Britain said quietly and with malice, "I would've done it myself." America's eyes widened. That was hardly the reaction he expected. He almost began crying again with relief. For centuries he had carried that around with him. Now, he didn't have to anymore. The two countries both had to hold back from hugging each other. So instead of throwing his arms around Britain, America continued.

 _"I took care of Martha after that. I raised her and she got married to this guy Daniel. He was super rich and had everything he could provide her with. I didn't like him though. I don't know what it was, but I just didn't approve. However, I stayed out of it until he died not too long after they got married. I had a much better feeling with George. Martha and her late husband had known him before Daniel died, but she never really considered him until I pushed the marriage. I felt reassured, especially after even Lafayette said Martha 'loved her husband madly'. I guess you could say that was the second Union I pushed for that worked out.'_ America chuckled at his horrible (but still kinda funny) joke. Britain, well aware he was talking about the Washingtons, simply gave him a look that said 'really?', but didn't interrupt.

 _"Anyway; my whole point of bringing up the Jones' was that it was them who started it all. But things kind of took off from there. When you and France started fighting for the Ohio Valley, I was cheering you on as well as my people. It was because you were my strong big brother and I always loved it when you'd kick that frog's ass. My people were because they thought they'd be able to expand out west when you won. And when you did, they were thrilled. But then that freakin' Pontiac went and killed everyone's buzz. I understood when you passed the Proclamation of 1763, but my people didn't. And I guess I didn't to an extent. I had assumed that once that land was yours, we'd conquer the whole damn place and build a place worthy of being a part of your awesome empire. But instead, the place was off limits? I brushed it off, but that was mostly when my people started to not be too happy with you. I started to resent you. My people were unhappy for different reasons, and while I had empathy for them, I was upset because you were either never around, or you were around too much. You would insult our militias and brush off the knowledge we had gained in your absence. That General Braddock for example, was an arrogant bastard. General Washington warned him that fighting was different in the New World. He told him not to go, that he wouldn't return. Not only does he disregard what he says, he insults him on top of that. Bet he wished he listened when he got his heart ripped out by Indians. I was more than eager to share my knowledge and resources, but it was as if I went from being your brother to being a nuisance. We were nothing to you anymore. Then fast forward to all the taxes. Dude, we were freakin' drowning in all those taxes. I hated taxes. Before, and now I guess, I knew that taxes were a necessity in running a successful country, let alone empire. But I blamed my family's deaths on taxes since that's what set the soldier off in the first place. Now it was even worse because they were enforced. The soldiers' behavior got worse. People struggling to start up businesses or hell, even provide for their families experienced a tragic financial downturn. We had to pay for a war that didn't benefit us and suddenly it was like there was a tax just for being alive. It was more than I could take. That's when resentment started to intensify to hostile levels. I hosted the meeting that formed the Sons of Liberty. I headed the Committee of Correspondence. I urged the colonies the form the First Continental Congress._ And _the second one. A-and I was the first to return fire at Concord. But there was still a small part of me that believed we could create something extraordinary together. So I sent the Olive Branch Petition in a last ditch effort to save what we had. But when we got a letter back about how we were all traitors that would be punished in rather horrible ways, that kid you knew died. I went around and led the effort to raise an army. I took what I could get, but not many people wanted to full-out rebel against you, and with good cause. My anger was a driving force though; I was convinced I could do this somehow. But the Battle of Bunker Hill was a huge slap to the face that I was_ way _over my head. So I did what almost made me give up on living all together_ : _I reached out to France. Of course he didn't like me since I had chosen you over him, but he thought it was a great way to piss you off. So he gave me supplies, trained military leaders and financial aid. I probably would've lost without him. But I prefer not to think about that. Anyway, I served alongside Washington during the war. I was the one who busted Benedict Arnold so I got a pretty good position. But it was still hard to be in the army. The weather was brutal and unforgiving. It seems like supplies were endlessly low. Moral was down to like, 10 percent. We had plenty of deserters. I was feeling the effects of being on the losing side. But thanks to Nathanial Sluder, I never lost hope. He was my best friend, an awesome guy. Nothing ever got him down. He was ever the optimist and was definitely a radical at heart, which made him even more awesome. He told me he had a family back home, a beautiful wife and five kids. He had six, but one died from starvation because they couldn't afford food. Why? Cause of all the taxes. It gave me all the more reason to keep fighting. He brought up the moral by at least 60 percent. Everyone liked him, even Washington. He was like family to me. Then_ , _during an ambush...he got shot. In the stomach. I saw the soldier who did it too. Up to then, I was able to fight the redcoats without too much of a problem. But...this one...he looked just like you. For a second I thought it_ was  _you. But his eyes were too gray, so I knew it wasn't you. I had my rifle all ready to fire but...I-I just couldn't do it. I saw another soldier aiming for Washington, so I shot him instead. I ran to his aid for a bit, but came back to help Nathaniel when I thought it was safest. I saw the redcoat who shot him sticking him with the bayonet, laughing like it was hilarious. And he looked over at me and smiled._ 'Oh, I'm sorry, is this your friend?'  _He chuckled while twisting his bayonet around in Nathaniel's leg. He was still alive too. He groaned and groaned and I could tell he wanted to fight back but he couldn't. Before the redcoat could laugh again, my bayonet went right through his chest. I kicked him off and he tumbled a few feet away, groaning in pain. I knelt beside my friend. He was shredded and torn like old fabric. Blood pooled up above the grass. I didn't give an inspiring speech about how he was going to live because he was one tough bastard and he couldn't die on us now. But he could die. He was dying. He was going to die right there by that hill. We both knew it. It didn't matter how much of a tough bastard he was. No one could survive those wounds._ 'America,'  _he said_ 'you win this war. For me, for all of us. I know you'll win this war. Sure the British Empire has conquered half the world. But you're going to conquer all of it. Because you have this.'  _he pointed to my chest. I knew what he meant._ 'I'll be there you know. I'll be in there screaming for you to keep going, even after this war is over. You're going to be the best damn country this world has ever seen. See to it.'  _His speech sounds inspiring. It sounds like he died with dignity after that. The whole time he gagged and choked on his own blood. Half the words came out sounding like gibberish. He died with a final cough of blood. His eyes remained wide open. His limbs were sprawled everywhere in unnatural positions. No, Nathaniel Sluder did not die with dignity. Behind me, the redcoat that killed my best friend was still moaning. He was still alive. Not for long. I picked up my bayonet. Next thing I know, I'm stabbing him with it. Over and over again. Each time I get splattered with blood. I don't even know where I'm stabbing him and I don't care. His eyes were closed by then, certainly dead, but that only made it worse. Now he looked_ exactly  _like you. And I stabbed him more and more."_ America began to choke up, the old memories of his grizzly rage disturbing to him.  _"I'm slicing and jabbing this bastard who killed my friend, but it's also you but it isn't you, except that didn't matter because it was like a two for one. I think I might've laughed, but I'm not sure. And after I made sure this redcoat was completely red, I was finally done._ 'Are you done?'  _A voice asked. It was Washington. He handed me a shovel and walked away without saying another word. I dug my friend a grave and put him in it as dignified as I could. I looked at his face one last time before I put the dirt over it forever. I remember it clearly to this day. I patted the dirt down with the shovel and looked over at the carnage I caused. The smell of blood was overpowering. I looked at this redcoat. He was you. I knew it really wasn't, but it still_ was.  _I think I lost it. I don't know. I must've if I don't remember. I bet I looked insane, a bloody mess crying and yelling over the body of an enemy. I dug your grave you know. And put 'you' in. I thought I was sweating the whole time, but it was just blood running down my face. I looked at your face before I put the dirt over it too. I couldn't do it for long though. I patted the dirt down and just stood there between the two graves. I looked at yours. It wasn't what I wanted. I was finally able to realize it over the anger. All I wanted was for you to let me go. I didn't want the war, the death and the carnage. I wanted to be free. I wanted to build my nation for Nathaniel. And for me. When you realized I was a lost cause and went home, I felt relieved and deep down, heartbroken because I knew I'd lost you. But I had to go. For Nathaniel. For the Jones'. For Martha and George. For the colonists. For me. And for you. Especially for you. Before we'd hate each other so much we'd never be able to reclaim at least a bit of what we lost. So I could build the dream we had, but you couldn't fufill, not with me at least. So you'd have a reason to be proud to say I was a product of your influence. So the both of us could have our freedom. Because I...loved you too much to tie you down. The spirit of desperately wanting to please still exists, it always did. I never stopped wanting to help and give to better your kingdom. You're my family after all. Despite what I said...you never stopped being my big brother."_ Now America  _really_ couldn't look Britain in the eye. He just bared his soul and for the first time in centuries, was completely vulnerable. He didn't like it, but it did feel amazing to get it all off his chest. He really wanted Britain to say something, _anything_ , but the ol' bloke was too shocked to say much. He set he tea cup in the saucer and placed it gingerly on the table as if it might shatter like America's emotions. 

"Now it's my turn." Britain said. Outside a final firework exploded into the night sky.

 


	3. Redcoat Reminiscence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's Britain's turn to recount his view of America's rebellion and the war that almost destroyed him and left him heartbroken for centuries.

Britain wasn't exactly eager to share his side of the story. Especially after seeing his brother break down. His side of the story had a happier ending, or so he thought. He won, he gained his independence. Over the centuries he had seemed so happy. It royally pissed Britain off to see him so joyful. He had to suffer while his beloved America grew and succeeded; always walking around with a smile and a positive attitude, even in the darkest of times. Britain always had to maintain appearances. He had to act normal when there was a part of his soul that was dead and rotting inside him. America never had that. But now he knew he did. He's held it in for so long too. He's just revealed some of his darkest secrets and his worst emotions from their war. But most importantly, he revealed that he's also been wearing a mask this whole time. For years Britain relished in the thought of seeing America break down, to see him cry like how he had done in front of him in the rain so long ago. But now that it was happening, he couldn't stand the sight. The sight of strong, independent, resilient America now reduced to a broken, regretful one wasn't something he cared to see. Britain sat there, his hands clenched in his lap. He looked down, unable to see America in such a distressed manner. He could hardly stop himself from shaking. Where was that servant when he needed him?! He needed more tea, he needed something to hold on to as he delved into his old memories. He would've easily settled for a glass of whiskey at that point. Anything. He sighed and began to talk about everything he promised he would never reveal.

 _"I can't stand the sight of you, you know. I can hardly look you in the eye. While you're frankly terrible at sensing the mood, surly you've noticed this over the years. Undoubtedly you've assumed it was because I hated you, but it was because you were, and still are, a reflection of my failures. As a country, an empire, but more importantly, as a brother and parent. You say that you want to be seen as a product of my influence, but that is certainly not how the others see you. You are a symbol of my incompetence and the beginning of the end of my empire. You were so young, naive and weak. How could such a powerful country lose? When Finland told us about you, I was convinced you were mine. You were going to be my newest property. France of course wanted you just as badly and for the same reasons. But when it appeared France had more to offer, I almost gave up on the endeavor altogether. You were going to choose him, I just knew it. But when you chose me, I felt differently than I did before we found you. Before, you were just property, a claim that was rightfully mine. But the fact that you could've become France's colony instead and chose to be my colony, my mindset changed. You weren't like the others. Especially not to me. The others resented me, but I seemed to hold a special place in your heart. You were always happy to see me and couldn't wait until I came back. You weren't scared when I took you anywhere and instead looked forward to it. Might I ask, why_ did _you choose me?"_ This was a question Britain had wanted to ask for centuries, but he never could without bringing up the past. Why _had_ he chosen him? France had great food, wealth and a good instinct of how to survive and thrive in America's homeland. Britain had, well, he _did_ have food, not much money left from endless fighting with France and a _huge_ superiority complex he couldn't shake. What did he have to offer?

"Intuition mostly, but I also like to think divine intervention had a role." America answered, his voice regaining some of it's normal composure. "I was just a kid after all. France had tons of food, but had an air of douche bag-ness. You were actually pretty terrifying and intimidating, but...when you got so upset, I knew you had a softer side. France had a cold feel to him and would have certainly treated me like nothing more than property. But as far as I knew, you could've done that as well. But I felt this bond towards you. I instantly wanted to please you and I didn't like seeing you so upset. That's why I asked if you were okay. I wanted to make sure you were and if you weren't...well, I was going to remedy that. No matter what I had to do. If I was already thinking that way, I knew you were the one I wanted to oversee me. I probably would've left earlier had France owned me. I held no hate for him, but no love either. I...already loved you when I first met you and I cared about you more and more as time went on. I was more than happy to call you Big Brother. But when I did and you seemed to get upset and told me to just call you 'Britain', I was more than happy to do so. It seemed to make you sad calling you Big Brother, so I didn't do it again. I chose you because I loved you. If someone gave me the chance to change my decision, I would readily decline." Shit. Britain didn't regret asking. An age-old question of his was finally answered, but now his calm composure was starting to deteriorate. His lip quivered and he bit down hard on it. He barely scratched the surface of his memories from that time and he was already breaking down. Damn it! "Huh, interesting." was all he could say without seeming so touched by America's answer.

_"But after that, I made sure you had every luxury I could provide. A lot of them you declined; you were always the independent type even as a tyke. I wanted to take you back to my place so I could raise you properly, but it was far too dangerous in Europe at the time. I was still fighting with France and he hadn't completely given up on claiming you as his own. At least here you could hide if he came looking. It'd have been too dangerous for you had he just entered my home. But I could never visit as much as I wanted. That was one but many regrets. As soon as I could take you home, I did. You were both happy and unhappy at the same time. I knew letting you have your freedoms would've made you happier, but I just wouldn't allow it. What if France kidnapped you while you were out and about? At least that's why I told myself. I couldn't let you go, but I should've at least a little. What else could I expect from locking up a free spirit? Yet another regret. You were more than happy to accept my ways and cultures...at least at first, but I could always tell you were sad you didn't have your own. Like a fool, I thought you could be happy with just adopting mine. Your bedtime stories were history lessons. Sure you hated them and even called them 'boring stories', but I figured it would help curb your desire for discovering who you were. I thought a lot of stupid things when it came to raising you. I'll never forget when I left when you were just a toddler. You begged me not to go and my advice to you was to-"_

"Have a stiff upper lip. And to grow strong and be a good country."

 _"Exactly. And you did exactly that and yet I was angry for it. I was the one who led you to your independence and I was angry with you for following my advice. Another regret. I should've stayed and raised you properly, but I was foolish and stupid. When I came back, I couldn't believe how fast you'd grown and I was furious with myself for not being there. I robbed you of your childhood. You_ had _to grow up; I had left you on your own to fend for yourself. While I was angry at myself, I acted like I was angry with_ you _. I became even more controlling and oppressive. I started treating you like property. I acted like you had become an embarrassment just because you had found out who you were and it wasn't like me. You were becoming you and I mocked you for it. I tried to dress you, feed you and raise you according to my culture, but it didn't fit nor please you anymore. It got to the point where you were right in calling me a tyrant. Of course I didn't see it that way at the time. I was right, my word was law, my ways were the only ways that were acceptable. You_ were _my property after all. I needed to put you in your place, but my punishments in forms of taxes and bans and laws backfired. You'd had enough. After receiving that Olive Branch Petition, all the rumors and reports I had gotten about rebellion in_ my _colon_ _y, were confirmed. Hell. No. You all thought that King George wrote that letter calling you all traitors, but he was far too gone mentally speaking to write a proper letter...I wrote it. I knew you'd read it and know that I was hurt by your betrayal, but you took it the wrong way. I didn't want to fight, but there was no way you'd willingly go back to being my well-behaved little colony, so I had no choice but to crush your rebellious, free spirit. I knew you'd never understand what it was like to put on that uniform every day. It was a mixture of necessity and despair. I needed to get you back, but this wasn't the way I wanted to do it. The Battle of Bunker Hill hardly felt like a victory. It was sad to think it would be this easy to crush your rebellion. I'd figured you'd be stronger than that, if not by much. But I had gravely underestimated you. Your guerrilla warfare techniques and your New World fighting styles were perfected and virtually unknown to my troops. While there weren't many of you, the Patriot spirit was incredible. I was damn well impressed to be truthful. I honestly thought either we would've crushed the resistance fast or you would come crawling back, but I was surprised when neither happened. At first I was mad, but I quickly became thoroughly pissed. I was ruthless on the battlefield. All those people were assistants to your betrayal, traitors. I did cruel things I care not to admit. I-I'd...mangle the bodies of the dead. I'd gather them in piles and burn them, relishing at the sight. Red was my favorite color and I lusted after the scent of blood. I'd torment those who surrendered, ask them where you were and when they said they didn't know, which they all did, I shot them. Mercy didn't exist in my soul anymore. But then I finally found you. Your soldiers backed you, but it didn't matter. It was only you and me. You wanted your freedom and I would not allow it. My fiery rage knew no bounds at this point and you were a dead man. Your betrayal was punishable in only one way. I charged, knowing you'd lose to me. I was centuries older and was always fighting with_ someone _. I had plenty of experience and you were but a child. But I taught you well. I still am thankful that you had the reflexes to stop my bayonet with your rifle. It went flying and I knew you were finished. I had you. I was going to finish you. But I wasn't. I never was. You weren't my little brother anymore in your eyes, but you still were in mine. You were that little boy I visited in the field and the only person I ever loved unconditionally, even when I was angry. I'd sooner shoot myself. But what could I do? I couldn't shoot you. The only thing I could do was fall to my knees out in the blasted rain and sob for my loss. And I knew you were a loss at that point. That's why I went home after that. The problem with loving unconditionally is that it never stops and the thought that you held no love for me anymore was more than I could handle, up to the present day. Your hate for me is what keeps me up at night."_ So Britain bared his soul. What now? America just sat there and thought. Britain loved him unconditionally? The thought almost burst America's tough heart with affection. Did Britain still not know that he loved him just as much? He had to, but America didn't exactly know how to come about telling Britain something like that. Just as he was about to confess, rain began to pour outside.

Just as Britain's eyes darkened with anger.


	4. Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the two have taken down their emotional walls. They've told their sides of their story and clearly they both love each other. But that doesn't mean that the two still don't have left over resentment they need to get off their chests. Will all their progress up to this point be ruined, or will the two finally leave the past in the past forever?

Britain's emotions didn't come without a price. You wanted the sappy, love-filled side? You were going to get the enraged, spiteful side. Yes he loved his brother, but he would be lying if he said he didn't detest him to an extent. He was still that naive, arrogant and disobedient child who betrayed him; he was just older and wore glasses now. Did he have any clue what Britain once did to traitors?! He was lucky he grew too attached. How dare that upstart rebel against him. How dare he! He was the mighty British Empire! He should teach him a lesson!

America blocked his strike before Britain even knew he threw it. Britain's arm was gripped with a hand full of strength and power. This wasn't the hand of the little, baby brother he remembers. This was someone else, another man; possibly one who hadn't horribly betrayed him and left him destroyed. But it was and it could still hurt him. He waited, braced for the pain. America's hand shook. They both could tell his instinct was to fight back, to show off his impressive feat of strength. But he couldn't hurt his big brother, not again. Especially not with tears running down his face. He let go. America's face was partially hidden in shadow, more serious than Britain had ever seen before.

"Let it out, Britain." He said. That little bastard! Who does he think he is?! He must pay for what he's done, he must! Throw after throw of punches and strikes and America didn't block any of them. He easily could've, but he knew he shouldn't. Britain needed this and so did he. Every blow made up for every hateful glare, every angry comment and every missed moment of brotherhood since those days. His punches became weaker until all he could do was push on America's immovable chest. His haze of rage gradually dissipated and he looked at what he'd done. America's glasses were crooked, yet intact somehow. Blood splattered his face. Whether it was from his battered nose or multiple scratches, he was unsure.

 _'Oh god, what have I done? What have I done to my baby brother?'_ Britain thought. He grabbed his folded handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed America's face. The blood, still damp, came off rather easily. Most of America's face had already bruised so Britain was trying to be extra careful as to not hurt him anymore than he already had. He opened his mouth as if to say something. Maybe an apology? Whatever it was, it wouldn't come out. America wouldn't meet his gaze anyway. After Britain finished cleaning the blood from America's face, he reached up and fixed his glasses. Then the two just stood there for what felt like hours on end.

"Did I really hurt you that badly?" America asked. Britain said nothing; he couldn't. But his tears said it all.

"Well, now's as good a time as any for you to take your shot." Britain responded, bracing himself to be hit. But the blows never came.

"No need. I already got all my anger out years ago."

"That's no good you bastard! You have to hit me! You've never felt at all furious with me all these years later?! Why?!"

"Because I got what I wanted! Why would I still resent you when I got what I fought for in the first place?!"

"It was all so easy for you then! You haven't had to deal with hatred and the feeling of betrayal festering underneath your skin for over two centuries, while I've been suffering!" Britain was so furious, he wanted nothing more than to draw more blood from his brother, but he refused to do that again. Instead he just stormed outside, into the rainy, dark night. He began to let his tears flow freely, now that the rain provided some cover. 

"Britain, wait!" America called. He ran after him, but Britain had stopped, half-way through the gardens, like he was waiting for him. America grabbed his arm, "Bri-". He was met by the barrel of his pistol he kept in the foyer. He jumped back, surprised. An image flashed through his head. The scene before him changed. His gardens changed into a flat plain, barren. His brother changed before him too. He looked roughly the same, minus the air of youthful strength and determination. His green uniform turned into a red one and the pistol elongated into a rife. The rain in the present poured down just as savagely as it did back then. The weather sensed the mood better than America.

America knew that this image wasn't real. But what was real were the bullets in that pistol that was pointed at his face. Would Britain really shoot him? Part of him knew for a fact Britain wouldn't do that, but another part wasn't so sure. He was pissed this time. Not since the War of 1812, did Britain ever point a weapon at him. He was acting out of character; America had never seen him like this. So unorderly, almost rabid like.

"Do you really want to shoot me, Britain?" He gritted his teeth in response. Just as America had seen Britain in his red uniform, Britain had seen America in his blue one. He was shorter and wasn't wearing his glasses. He looked so child-like, almost innocent although Britain now knew what America had seen, what his life was like in his absence. What if he had stayed? Paid more attention? Would both he and America had built the country together like America once considered? Seeing the younger, rebellious America once again made Britain recollect his choices. He was practically a baby when he declared war.

 _"I was too cocky."_ Britain thought, _"I figured since he was so young, naïve and clueless that he would never survive on his own."_ Maybe that's why he clung on so tight? Was he looking out for his own interests by seeking the natural resources and vast lands in the New World, or was he really looking out for America to make sure he wouldn't fail? The picture of the America, young and long-gone faded before him and he saw the new America. While he was still very, _very_ young, he was no longer a tiny, helpless child. The person before Britain was a man. A man who has inevitably had many failures, but has also wildly surpassed anything Britain thought he was capable of doing. He had clawed his way through every impossibility, every obstacle. Britain knew as well as anybody that America wouldn't be where he is today if it wasn't for him. After all, all the philosophies that America held dear originated from Britain's greatest thinkers and America's laws were adopted from his. Hell, even America's business industry wouldn't have taken off like it had if it weren't for British investors. But even from all that, what he had done was impressive. He had done horrible things, made mistakes and stumbled his way through many occurrences America wishes he could take back, but in such a short time, he had accomplished the things that countries had been striving for, for millennia.

_"Not bad, little brother. Not bad at all."_

He dropped the gun. He had no idea what he was thinking anyway, pointing a gun at one of the people he cared for most.

The rain continued to fall roughly. America just stood there, drifting through his thoughts and memories, at a loss for words. The rain weighed heavily on Britain. Of course, he was no stranger to rain, but something about this rain was different. The water felt like metal; like it was filled with all the sadness, grief and negativity the two of them had experienced over the years. Soon, Britain felt like Atlas; forced to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Damn, this was some heavy rain.

He dropped to his knees, his face in his hands. He wondered how he could feel so heavy, yet so empty and hollow at the same time.

America just looked at him, surprised. He saw before him the redcoat who had fallen in the rain over 200 years ago out of despair at his loss. It looked just like this. Britain looked the same, worn, anguished and defeated. But America saw two Britains. One was the mighty British Empire, the tyrant that seemed to seek nothing but America's obedience through any means. The other was just Britain, a quiet, quaint country that could fit into one of America's states with room left over. He remembered how he felt all those years ago, seeing his big brother in the rain, crying. He felt complete pride first; he had brought the British Empire to his knees! But he also felt sadness, loss and worst of all...pity. How pathetic, he thought. He now regrets those thoughts and feelings; they were the folly emotions of a child. Looking at the Britain now, he saw someone completely different. He was no longer an Empire. He had lost everything he once dominated.

 _"I feel like I should pity him. He was once the king of the world and now he only possesses a tiny little island."_ But America didn't pity him at all. America felt something he hadn't in a long time; love for his brother. He once again felt pride, but not for himself, but for Britain. Perhaps Britain thought he had lost strength with the end of his Empire, but America thought different. The Britain that gave him so much was still there, continuing to have so much to offer. That was real strength. America could lift cars and break bones with just a tap, but supernatural strength wasn't what made a country strong. It was possible that the Empire part of Britain was gone, that he started to see the Britain he used to know, the one he called big brother. The one he made promises to. The one he cared for more than anything.

 _"I was such a fool."_ America thought, _"I have a different kind of strength; one that differs from his. He can't match my kind of strength, but I can't match his."_ America didn't see weakness as he did before. He was too old for that kind of childish thinking; this time around, he saw emotion, which was not the same as weakness. That was one of Britain's strengths that were greater than his. America hardly showed any emotion; he was frequently passive aggressive about many things and then aggressive aggressive on other things. And his emotions never seemed genuine. Britain's emotions, at least right now, were completely genuine. It takes an incredible amount of strength to reveal that kind of thing to someone.

"I should've done this all those years ago." America said. Britain braced himself, for what he didn't know. Was America going to laugh at him? Or even kick him? Whatever the case, Britain was not prepared for what America actually did.

He heard a splash in front of him, and felt strong arms wrap around him. He opened his eyes. America was also on his knees, hugging him. America didn't say anything and neither did Britain. Britain felt a lot of things, as if America was connecting his soul with his. He felt every apology, every moment of grief, regret, desperation and painful moment and he no longer felt empty. America smiled. He remembered this from his childhood; Britain hugged him and held him all the time. He was there whenever he was scared, when he needed comfort. Sure, Britain left him and didn't return for quite some time, but America understood why. He didn't at the time, but now he realized the reason behind it all. It was just the way things were. France and Britain got along fairly well nowadays (believe it or not), but at the time they were constantly at war. The rest of Europe and many of the other colonies were also restless towards him as well. He was faced with constant threats; he had no choice but to address them, even though that meant he wasn't around for him. If only he had thought that way at the time. He could've spared his brother all this pain.

Britain smiled too. He seemed to be able to sense all the things America was thinking. He remembered how his hands felt; they were so tiny and unsure, always clinging to him for reassurance. They were obviously not like that anymore. They were big and powerful, not at all searching for comfort or guidance. Rather, it seemed, they were comforting _him_.

Of course both of them still harbored feelings of sadness and grief. Going such a long time carrying those feelings have left them scarred; such pain could never be completely erased, but surely they made progress in fixing their shattered relationship. They still needed some time. Who knows how long it would be? 200 years seems to bring some progress. Hopefully they could do it in a little less time.

America sat back on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting from Britain's stare to the pavement.

"I see no need to change our trade agreement." Britain finally said.

"I agree."

They laughed. A real genuine laugh the two of them had not had together since those times in the past that are long-gone, and should remain in the past.

 

 


End file.
